


On the Brink

by inK_AddicTion



Category: Guardians of Childhood - William Joyce, Rise of the Guardians (2012)
Genre: Being possessed sucks, But he's still alive, poor kozzy, sorta - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-18
Updated: 2015-01-18
Packaged: 2018-03-08 00:18:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3188696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inK_AddicTion/pseuds/inK_AddicTion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times Pitch Black was nearly Kozmotis Pitchiner, and the one time he didn't have to be. (draws heavily on book-verse)</p>
            </blockquote>





	On the Brink

There is hardly any light on the prison planet. Kozmotis spends his restless moments in and out of the dark, fitful nightmarish sleep catching him at random moments- halfway out of the guard station, he slumps listlessly to the floor and is overwhelmed by a distorted, greyscale vision of his burning villa on his secluded moon, his daughter's imagined screams. Before the great door, he lays, like a puppet with its strings cut and stares with hazy eyes into the star-spangled skies spinning slowly above him and mostly tries to not to listen to the insidious murmurs of the fearlings inside. Their voices scrape at his skull.

The strength and fortitude of the past is a distant memory, shrouded in the wisps of time. Some days he is unable to stand at his post, only hold his hands over his ears and think quietly of a time long past, and a daughter's laughing eyes.

This day is not one of those days. Kozmotis is standing, staring dully forward, preoccupied with his thoughts. They move slowly in his head as if they had been coated with lead. Then it comes- the whisper, so soft for a moment he thinks he had imagined it. He must have done. There is no way.

_"Please, Daddy. Please, please, please open the door."_

_Emily Jane?_  He thinks, almost says it aloud, and suddenly numb hands were moving, fingers fumbling in his tunic for an old silver locket. The ache in his muscles tells him it had been long since he had last moved, _(secondsminuteshoursdaysweeksmonthsyears)_  his legs nearly buckle. He prods at the clasp, forgetting how to unlock it- it opens- he stares down at the photograph inside, as if Emily Jane's conjured voice had whispered from a blurry photo, somehow from beyond death, piercing the veils of life and distance.

_"Daddy, I'm trapped in here with these shadows, and I'm scared. Please open the door. Help me, Daddy, please."_

_Moons-_  it is just as if she had spoken into his ear, voice quiet and shaking and tremulous, as if she fears waking the monsters she was trapped with. He has to get her out. She is alive- she has to be- the shadows don't know her voice. They can't. She is alive, near enough to be saved- he could have his daughter back- _Emily Jane, Emily Jane, I'm coming-_

Desperate, he heaves at the great door, digging his heels into the dry, hard-packed earth. His strength is wasted, alone on this planet, but he has strength enough to save Emily Jane. The door shifts- just a crack-

_and kozmotis_

_**d** _

_**r** _

_**o** _

_**w** _

_**n** _

_**s** _

.

.

.

.

.

.

..

.

...

.

..

.

.

.

..

.

.

.

.

.

..

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

..

...

...

..

...

..

Kozmotis blinks, startled, aware of little else than a great pain in his side, in his heart, as if he had been pierced through. He wonders how long has passed. A few hours, surely, there was a great light in front of him, like the rising of the sun. That must be it- the sun is rising over the edge of the prison planet, shining in Kozmotis' eyes. He must have fallen asleep outside his post, no doubt the fearlings took advantage to sow nightmares in his unconscious mind.

He _hurts,_  all over, but it is worst in a sharp, jagged pain just below his heart. He feels something wet and warm trickle sluggishly down his side and tries to bring a hand to wipe it away, but his body feels awkward and strange, and won't listen to him.

The sun is glaring at him now, right in his face, and for a moment, Kozmotis thinks it looks like a little spectral boy, holding the end of a lance. Kozmotis wonders where the other end is.

An explosion of pain rockets through him, and the darkness swallows him up once more.

...

.

.

.

.

.

..

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

...

..

.

...

.

..

.

.

...

Cold veils of fog drape across his face. He struggles to peer with waking eyes past the shadows. Irritably, he brushes them aside and doesn't stop to wonder how that is possible. Kozmotis blinks muzzily. His head feels confused, strange, raw, as if it is not his own.

For some reason, he sees a boy made of light laying on the rocky floor beneath him.

_His hand is on fire!_

Kozmotis is terrified, possessed by a blinding, hateful rush of vicious rage that does not feel at all his own. He clenches his hand, suddenly the only part of his body that will listen to him, and screams. The sound that comes out is not his own voice- hollow and dark and echoing through a thousand shadows.

There are children staring up at him, wide-eyed and terrified, and he  _feels it,_  their fear, thick and fresh and delightful, like drinking starlight. His body will not listen to him! Kozmotis is trapped, suddenly realising that is not just some hideous nightmare, _oh moons, what had he done._

A rush of shadows twists over his hand, the only part of himself that feels somewhat  _Kozmotis,_  and he feels automatically shunted to the back of a dark box inside his own head, staring out helplessly as the hideous, squirming shadows inside him roar out and grab the light-boy, throwing him into a black cage.

_Cage- he must still be at the prison planet- Kozmotis has to break out, they have to help him._

He begins to struggle, but it is like trying to swim in thick mercury.

 _"Please, be my guest,"_  hisses a voice, low and dark and hungry,  _"in this solid lead prison, created especially for_  you."

Kozmotis feels shadows twine over his body, holding him tight in their cruel, cold grip. He tries to scream, but no sound comes out.

 _"The only way to open that door now will be to kill me, and who amongst you is up to that!?"_  the nightmares snarl gleefully, and Kozmotis screams endlessly, unheard, into the darkness.

...

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

...

.

.

.

.

...

...

..

.

.

...

.

...

..

.

..

...

...

**_THat b_ o _y, I w_ I _ll d_ ES _troy i_ t _- what is tha_ T**

Kozmotis is weakened, barely there, but for a moment, the darkness shifts. All he can hear is the terrible shouting of the monsters possessing him, their whispered plans of hate and rage, evil stories of cruel deeds he cannot even hope are not true. He is mindless, lost in his own _terror._

Then he sees it- a glint.

The darkness around him freezes. Kozmotis pulls tendrils of shadow off of him, out of him, and begins to fight his way to the surface. The shadows fight him, but the light of the glint is enough to inspire him, and then he sees it.

_The locket._

Kozmotis blinks with eyes that are suddenly his. He feels old lungs suddenly inflate with breaths that aren't quite needed anymore. His body feels wrong and filthy, tarnished. He is panicked, terrified, staring helplessly at a boy made of light.

The boy is holding a lance, and Kozmotis feels the shadows in his brain _scream_ at the sight of it. A wave of rage, strong and hateful, threatens to overwhelm him once more, so he drags his eyes- he has to fight every twitch of muscle with the shadows who are desperate for control and sees a  _girl._

For a second, he sees Emily Jane.

The shadows disappear into the dark- their demands are unheard, just like Kozmotis for so long. He reaches out, desperate to  _touch,_  to know for sure, this time, this time it was real.

She had grey eyes and long hair, red cheeks flushed from heat. And in her hand, outstretched towards him like a gesture of benediction, dangled a slim, silvery locket, the face open, depicting another little girl's face, smudgy with time and forever happy, frozen into paper.

Kozmotis feels his heart break in his chest.

Her name comes to him then, and he cannot force his mouth to say it. The shadows still have that much control.

His hand brushes hers, just lightly, and her skin feels like a sun against his, blazing all the way through his hand and wrist. He tugs at the locket.

_I failed._

_Emily Jane._

_I'm so sorry._

Kozmotis screams, long and haunted, from the depths of his soul, and feels the shadows break free from the hold he has momentarily placed over him. Kozmotis is too exhausted to fight as they engulf him into the darkness once more.

..

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

...

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

The grey eyed girl is back, staring into his own eyes. He breathes, short, harsh, his every rasp an expression of pain. He hears the sounds of a great battle raging around them, sees fairies darting about with their bejewelled wings, a boy made of light crouching on a steepled roof aiming a familiar lance at him.

He does not know who he is. But he knows that this girl, this dear girl, is precious, that she has to be protected. Is she his daughter, he wonders? He knows there should be something. Someone, to fill the hole in his cold heart.

He feels cold metal against his hand. He clenches it, tries to pull it out, but whatever it is, a rusted silver locket, is welded to his palm, holding his fingers stiff and tight. He can feel the shadows writhing smoothly over the rest of his body, avoiding the locket arm vehemently. As if they were repelled. The stone he lays against is cold under the bare skin of his human arm. He feels muscles jumping and twitching, unfamiliar.

His other hand scrabbles against stone, sharp nails scratching at it. It flops, unwilling to listen to his commands, but he pushes his will over it and finds the girl's hand with his own. He longs to feel that heat like a sun once more, reaching into some forgotten part of his soul.

She is warmer than he remembers, but perhaps it is because the world around him grows so very cold.

...

He surfaces, and knows he is restrained. Tree vines twine coldly around his arms and legs. He pulls away, feels them wither at his touch and the dark revelry of the shadows within. He feels empty.

There is a woman before him, a woman with a long, beautiful face, familiar, and he instantly knows her.  ~~ _Emily Jane._~~  He tries to crawl towards her, but the body he shares with the monsters is weak and unwilling.

" _You.._.saved me." He rasps, and feels an obscure pride well up from some place he can't quite name. She glares down at him. Her eyes are cold and hard, like chips of blue ice. Her hair swirls around her as if she is underwater, she is robed in moss.

"No," she tells him flatly, uninterested. "It was the girl who saved you. The one  _you_  would make your Darkling Princess." There was a bitterness in her that he did not understand. He tries to reach out, but his hand is suddenly ripped back by a tree root. He gazes up at her, his eyes wide, hurt, and uncomprehending. "Had you forgotten me? Your own daughter!" There is accusation in her voice.

He tries to trawl through the shady pasts, but he cannot even remember his own name. Does he have one? He supposes he must.  _"No!"_  No, he didn't forget. He can't have forgotten her. She is so important. If only, if only he could remember  _why..._ "I never for a  _moment,_  forgot you."

He is  _so cold._  He can feel wind whipping at his cheeks, stirring through his hair. _He can feel._  It is muted, and the shadows howl inside him, never stopping, but he can, he can feel.

"Then why did you not come for me?" she hisses, and there is an eternity of hatred and hurt in that one demand, and he can only stare at her and whisper, _"I tried!"_

He had to have tried, right? He couldn't have let...something, important-  _moons, if he knew why she was important._  "I tried..." and it is a raw admission, full of pleas, _whyamihere, helpme, please,icantholdthemoff, dontletthemtakemeagain_. "For so long...I  _tried-_ " The shadows swell in his throat, mockingly, they cut him short.

He tries to break free of whatever bond is holding him, desperate, but the rising tide of fear is too strong. He can hear someone talking, but the shadows scraping in his brain is the only thing he understands. Agony flares in every nerve, he tries to scream, but chokes instead.

He crawls, panicked, sees the grey-eyed girl laying motionless some distance away. He knows- he knows she can help, he knows-

_**we will break her break you you are ours** _

**"Yes my daughter,"**  he hears the shadows hiss, **"I will not touch her."**

Then he is lost, and is not found for a long, long time.

...

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

..

.

.

..

...

.

...

.

.

.

.

.

The boy who feels like winter finds the wreckage of him laying in his shattered ashes in the darkest pit he could find.

 _"Tooth says...we were all someone, before. I don't know who you were,"_  says the blue-eyed boy. His hair is tousled in the wind, falling like snowflakes against his frost-kissed cheeks. He stands leaning against a crooked staff decorated with swirling patterns of ice. The blue of his hoodie and the white of his skin is the first colour he has seen in weeks, alone in the darkness.

He feels the shadows scraping dully at his mind and wonders what is wrong with him. There is a strange pain in his chest that aches and worsens with each breath. The shade is collapsed against the unforgiving stone, his metallic eyes dim and dull, reflective. A trail of dark blood, like tar, has dried on his face, mixing with the blood on his thin lips. His gums hurt too, and he cannot remember why.

He does not remember much of anything. He remembers waking up, cold and alone, abandoned in the smoky writhing shadows of firelight. He remembers aeons alone, hurting and wanting to fix the hurt that has followed him even now. He remembers whispering in the ear of a young girl struggling to sleep at night, trying to lull her to sleep and plunging her into screaming nightmares instead. He remembers following people, begging to be acknowledged, only for them to walk right through him and tear a hole in his heart, one that seems to grow bigger with every cursed beat.

He remembers a little golden man that could see him. He remembers being eager at first, desperate later, when the golden man turned coldly against him, a frown on the glowing face. He remembers being drawn to the Guardians, as they called themselves. He remembers long hours spent hiding in the shadows under a work desk watching a strong old man tinker with toys, wondering why he was drawn there, what was different about them that the ever-present itch of a presence in his head dissipated around them. He remembers catching tiny fairies that had fallen asleep at their posts and setting them gently out on rooftops to awaken safely. He remembers running in a Pooka's shadow.

He remembers a icy woman robed in moss striking him with lightning when he dares to approach any spirit, daring to think of answers to his questions, the electric pain of the light working through his body.

He remembers learning to use powers he had no idea how he had gotten, blending with the shadows, earning mastery over their many forms, and finally, a name, a name that was once a thing to be feared and became a joke: the Boogeyman.

Neither do I, he thinks.

"But I guess I kind of know who you are now," the boy continues. "And that guy, well, he's an ass." A pale brow furrows at him. "...but, I guess, I kind of understand. I just...I have to know. Was...was any of what you said...real?" The boy stops, and there is a strange desperate look on his face, and the shade broken on the floor understands he has to answer. "...In Antarctica? About...family?"

His tongue feels rough like sandpaper. He tries to speak, get words out, even though he hardly knows what he is going to say. "Help me," he says, and the words echo overlong, strange and musical in the air of this earth. The very soul of it vibrates in response to the words.

The boy stares at him as if he has spoken an entirely different language. "What?" He blinks back at the boy, tiredly, his thoughts slow and confused, moving in slow twinkling circles like the swirl of galaxies over his broken body.

"Please..." A finger twitches. A large grey hand enters his view and he watches confusedly as it reaches out towards the wintry boy. The boy steps back, his bare feet scuffing on the rough stone, and the hand falls short. He notices it has a twisting scar across the palm, a faded peach coloured burn mark in the shape of a locket. A numb feeling akin to pins and needles jets up his arm.

The wintry boy has small feet, very white, pale, bare skin dusted with ice crystals. His nails are faintly purple. He looks cold.

The shade feels very cold, too. "I can't..." The boy only gazes at him with eyes wide as moons. "...hear it anymore. The voice. Please. Help me."

The voices...his constant companion, his only companion. The voices that taught him how to wield shadow, the voices that whisper darkling thoughts into his mind until they are his own. They are his friends. He closes his eyes. The shade feels very alone.

"I have no one." Something wet curves down his cheek.

The darkness does not swallow him. He remains faintly aware as the boy begins to talk very fast. "...Pitch? What's wrong with you? Pitch? Pitch! Oh God- did you die? Pitch! Wake up! Look- I don't understand that sigh-y thing you just did, but if this a trick-!" Something nudges his shoulder and it goes numb. "Ah- shit, I didn't mean to do that- fuck, Pitch, wake up! This isn't funny! I know, I'm the Guardian of it..." The boy trails off, and he feels even worse. The fast speech reminds him of barbed fish-hook whispers in his ears, the vindictive pleasure writhing through his mind when the children scream.

More scuffing. He feels something cool and light brushing his other shoulder lightly. The shadows flee from the cold, and he feels the wind playfully rake icy nails over the exposed skin. "...Pitch? Jesus, man, you look like Sandy hit you in the face with that funky-ass sparkly dreamsand..."

Anxiously, he ponders if he is supposed to reply. The boy is beginning to sound loud, he knows loud means angry which means he is hurt, and he doesn't think he can take much more hurt in this state. Had he ever been anything else?

"Ssssssaaaannnd," he rasps, struggling to imitate the boy's words. "...sssssssaaand." The words don't sound like they are supposed to, they hiss.

"Okay, that's...that's actually really creepy. Just...uh, try not to talk, okay? I'll...I guess, I'll take you to the Pole. Um...Sand, right? Like...Sandy? Maybe the Guardians will know what to do...But if you, uh, flip out and go 'Nightmare king' on everyone, I'm gonna kick your ass, right?" the boy mutters.

The broken shade feels icy bands wrap around his wasted, destroyed, polluted body, and he is limp, unresisting, as for the first time in thousands of years, he is carried into the light.

.

.

.

.

.

.

..

.

..

and he

b

r

e

a

t

h

e

s.


End file.
